


Green Thumb

by imaginary_golux



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Golden Oldies Porn Battle, prompt: Millicent Bulstrode/Neville Longbottom, fist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Thumb

Millicent is quiet and unobtrusive and almost shy, if a six-foot girl with absurdly broad shoulders can be shy, and so very few people actually pay any attention to what she is looking at, or notice when she hangs around in places she shouldn’t be. So no one really notices when she starts hanging around the greenhouses sixth year. She’s not particularly interested in Herbology – it’s a required class, she does well enough, but that’s about it – but she might, perhaps, have something of an interest in a certain budding Herbologist.

Neville has grown up recently – quite literally, as he is rather taller than Millicent ever expected him to get. He is half an inch taller than _she_ is, at the very least, and his long hours battling every type of carnivorous plant known to wizardkind have given his arms some very nice definition indeed.

He has good hands, too, broad and strong, with blunt dexterous fingers. He keeps his nails clipped short so he doesn’t get too much dirt under them, and Millicent would have to admit, if someone asked her under Veritaserum, that she spends an inordinate amount of time watching his hands. He’s _good_ with them, gentle and firm and precise, and Millicent has to wonder if he’d been just as good with a woman as he is with his plants. Would his hands be gentle and firm and precise between her legs? Would his fingers twist just so, pinch and slide and thrust, to make her scream?

She is lurking behind a bush one day, pretending to be studying its flowers and actually studying the way Neville’s fingers coax the tendrils of a clinging plant to let go of his legs, when Neville looks up and meets her eyes and says, “So, are you ever going to say anything, or do you prefer just watching?”

Right, he’s a Gryffindor. They say things like that. Millicent realizes she is blushing, and regrets it immediately: blushing looks good on pretty girls like Cho Chang, perhaps, but not on broad-shouldered plain girls like her. But Neville is still looking at her, and he isn’t frowning or mocking or looking disgusted, so Millicent squares her shoulders and says, “Didn’t know if you’d want me to say anything.”

Neville, somewhat to her continuing surprise, looks her up and down, then meets her eyes again and smiles. “Can’t see why I wouldn’t,” he says easily. And holds out a hand.

Millicent takes it.

*

Neville’s hands, spelled clean, are just as talented as Millicent had dared to hope. They are clever and dexterous as they strip her out of her robes, gentle and firm as they skim down her sides and up again to cup her breasts. And Neville is giving her a heated look of appreciation, as if he really does like what he sees – and Merlin knows Gryffindors can’t lie for beans – so Millicent relaxes, lets him explore.

“What do you like?” Neville asks curiously, leaning closer as he rubs a thumb across her nipple, other hand sliding down to cup her hip. “What do you want?”

“Want your _hands_ ,” Millicent says, too turned on to self-censor, and Neville gives her an astonishingly filthy grin.

“As you wish,” he says, and scoops her up – dear Merlin, who knew Herbology was such good strength training? – and deposits her gently on the transfigured bed. (Abandoned classrooms are, of course, the traditional mating grounds for non-prefects. And Millicent is a dab hand at both transfiguration and locking charms.)

His hands are _everywhere_ after that, on her breasts and her sides and the long line of her thighs, and then one hand is cupping her cheek while he kisses her breathless, and the other hand is sliding up between her legs, which sprawl open for him without a thought, and he is slipping one blunt finger into her, gently and firmly and precisely. Millicent makes a sound into the kiss – she’s not actually sure _what_ sound – and Neville pulls back to grin at her again.

“Good?” he checks, and she nods and yanks him down into another kiss, and there’s another finger spreading her open, sliding into her where she is slick and hot and wanting.

“More,” she demands when they break the kiss this time, and Neville nods and gives her another finger, three spreading her wide, and she whimpers – dear Merlin, she didn’t know she could whimper – when he finds a place inside her which lights her up like candles at Yuletide. “More,” she says again, and he gives her a long look.

“How much do you want?” he says, not giving her another finger yet, and she glares at him as well as she can with one of his glorious hands doing filthy wonderful things between her legs, and snarls, “ _More_.”

Neville’s grin gets filthier. Who knew Gryffindors could look that sexy? “More, then,” he agrees, and slides his fourth finger in, and she lets her legs fall farther apart and tangles her hands in his messy hair and kisses him as hard as she can, because _oh_ four fingers is good.

And oh Merlin, there’s the thumb, he’s not making her ask anymore, and is she really going to be lucky enough, will he give her all of it, _yes_ , fuck yes, and Millicent realizes she’s actually _saying_ things, saying out loud how much she likes this, and Neville’s blue eyes are all dark pupil now, and he’s staring down at her like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Four fingers and a thumb, and she’s so wet she can hear the slick sound his hand is making, and he tucks his thumb up into the palm of his hand and twists, gently and firmly and precisely, and the thick part of his hand just _slides_ in, stretching her wider than she’s ever been, and his knuckles are hard against that place that lights her up, and Millicent screams her pleasure to the stone walls.

When she stops shaking, when her eyes clear and the waves of pleasure have stopped cresting through her like lightning, Millicent blinks at Neville, and cannot quite blame him for the thoroughly smug smile on his face.

“Enough?” he asks politely, and she sighs and nods as he slips his hand back out of her. He bends and kisses her, gently and firmly and precisely, and raises his sticky hand to lick it clean. Millicent watches dazedly.

“Same time next week?” he asks when he is done, and she nods and watches him leave, thinking that his hands are, in fact, just as clever as they’ve always looked.

Next week cannot come soon enough.


End file.
